Archive of Our Own

When Clark woke up, it felt like he'd been run over by a truck. Worse, because he'd actually been run over by a truck before. And while it hadn’t been exactly comfortable, he'd been fine afterward. This time, though, it felt different. Maybe this was what it felt like to actually be human.

His body ached, and he was shivering uncontrollably for some reason—his temperature way too high for him to feel this cold. It made absolutely no sense.

Was he dying?

The alarm blared, making his skull throb with each insistent beep. Great. He had a migraine, too to top it all off. It took all the strength Clark had to lift his hand and silence it, and even then, it took three tries because he couldn’t even be bothered to turn over. He just fumbled around until his fingers finally found the button.

Clark closed his eyes, wishing he could just go back to sleep and forget about whatever was going on with his body. But then he remembered: the alarm going off meant he had to go to work. He groaned, half out of frustration and half because his body was literally refusing to cooperate, and after a herculean amount of effort, he finally managed to sit up. His legs swung over the side of the bed, but the second he tried to stand, nausea hit him like a truck (again). He froze, taking slow breaths to avoid losing the contents of his stomach all over the rug.

Out of bed, though, he was shivering even more—if that was even possible. The cold felt like it was inside him, gnawing at his bones.

For once in his life, Clark doubted his ability to make it to work. He genuinely felt like he was dying. The thought of getting up, doing his morning routine, walking to the Daily Planet, working for 10+ hours (because journalists don’t have 9-to-5’s), and running off to save the world whenever he heard someone yell for help in between was beyond daunting. It sounded impossible.

His eyes drifted to the distress beacon Bruce had once given him, just in case. Clark usually kept it on his nightstand and carried it around with him every day—even though he never thought he’d actually need to use it. The only reason he kept it on himself was because Bruce had told him it worked both ways. And even though Clark could hear Bruce’s calls for help or notice spikes in his heartbeat if he was in distress, there might be exceptions. Knowing that Bruce had the beacon to signal him in case of an emergency made him feel a little more at ease. It had always seemed more like a precaution for Bruce than anything for himself.

Was this an emergency, though?

Bruce was busy. Like, ridiculously busy. The Batman didn’t just fight crime in Gotham; he was a single father to (officially) five kids, ran a multinational company, managed a public image, and had a million other things demanding his attention. Clark was pretty sure Bruce didn’t have time to come running just because he felt like he was maybe dying. But... maybe today was different?

Clark stared at the beacon again, his mind racing. He could not be this weak. He was Superman. He could do this. He could go to work, put on his usual smile, write some fluff articles, and if anything came up, he’d be ready to throw on his suit and fly out. He’d done it a million times before. This was nothing.

Except—he felt like he was being crushed by an invisible weight. Every movement was a struggle, each breath felt too shallow. He was starting to feel lightheaded just from sitting there. Come on, Clark. You’re Superman. But the thought wasn’t as reassuring as it should have been.

He slowly pushed himself off the bed, feeling the room tilt dangerously. His stomach churned, and he had to grab the nightstand to steady himself. He blinked, trying to clear the fog in his head, but everything felt... wrong.

No. He wasn’t weak. He wasn’t going to let this thing—whatever it was—keep him down. He had a job to do. He had people to help.

But then the nausea hit again, more violently this time, and the walls seemed to close in around him. He fought it for a moment longer, but it was no use. His knees buckled, and he had just enough time to push himself into a sprint to the bathroom, his body somehow obeying his mental command to move even though every ounce of him screamed to lie down. The moment his powers kicked in though—his speed, his reflexes—he felt worse.  

Clark barely made it to the toilet before the wave of nausea took over. His stomach heaved, and he clutched the edge of the toilet bowl, his head spinning. It was like each burst of energy drained him further, made him feel even more... human. The dizziness was overwhelming. He closed his eyes, trying to breathe through it.

Superman doesn’t throw up. The thought echoed in his mind, but it was no use. His body was betraying him, and it was humiliating.

After what felt like an eternity, Clark crawled back to his bed, the energy drained from his limbs, his head pounding like a drum. He collapsed face-first onto the sheets. He felt like he couldn’t even keep his eyes open, but somehow, he managed to reach for the distress beacon on his nightstand.

He turned it over in his hand, staring at it as if it were the only thing in the world that mattered.

His breath was shaky, his chest tight. He’d never felt this way. Not even when exposed to kryptonite. Sure, the weakness and dizziness would hit him, but nothing had ever made him feel so utterly... fragile.

Maybe this is it, he thought. Maybe this is the one thing that finally breaks me.

He hit the button.

Bruce had been on his way to a meeting when Superman’s distress beacon silently went off on an app on his phone. His heart rate spiked almost immediately—seriously, Clark was almost as bad as his kids when it came to his blood pressure—and Bruce quickly checked the location. The signal was coming from Clark’s own apartment, which was even more stress-inducing.

He pulled his phone back and glanced over his shoulder. “Natalie, dear, I’m going to have to skip this next meeting,” he said, already turning toward his office.

Natalie’s face fell. “Mr. Wayne, surely you can’t be serious. This meeting is of the utmost importance if we wish to keep our working relationship with TetsuMirai Industries.”

Bruce barely spared her a glance, his mind already racing. “It’s a family matter, Natalie, and you know I put my family above all else.”

Her shoulders slumped. She knew there was no changing his mind if family was involved.

“I have full trust in your skills to lead the meeting,” Bruce continued, his voice calm but firm as he reached for his coat and briefcase (aka his Batman suit). He didn’t even look at her shocked expression. “You’ve been to all the same meetings I’ve been to, you’ve compiled my notes, and you’ll have Lucius there for backup. You’ll do fine.”

“M-Mr. Wayne, you can’t be serious.”

“Go get ‘em, tiger!” Bruce said with a smirk, gently pushing her out of his office before she could protest further.

Once he was alone, Bruce moved quickly. He called up the Justice League's Monitor Bank on his phone, accessing the satellite system he’d helped design for real-time tracking of the League's operations. He needed answers, and fast.

There were no active missions for Superman. No alerts. No reports of a crisis in Metropolis. No signs of Superman being engaged anywhere on Earth.

This was wrong. The distress beacon shouldn’t be coming from Clark’s apartment unless… something serious had happened.

His jaw clenched, and without a second thought, he called for his helicopter, his mind set. He had to get to Metropolis ASAP—and he couldn’t waste another moment.

Finally arriving at Clark’s apartment, Bruce wasted no time. After a second attempt at opening the door, his hands were shaking so much that it took a moment before he could force the door open. When he finally managed to get it unlocked, he burst through, eyes immediately scanning the room.

Clark’s apartment looked… normal. Tidy, as usual. Nothing out of place. It didn’t look like anyone had attacked him. At least, not in the living room. Bruce’s mind immediately did its check—no broken windows, no signs of struggle. Everything was… too calm.

It was a small apartment, one Bruce had offered to upgrade countless times, but Clark always refused. Even when Bruce tried to convince him to take the money from the Superman merchandise royalties—money that had easily accumulated to a small fortune—Clark wouldn’t hear it. He said it would be too suspicious for someone with his job and salary to suddenly live above his means, so instead, he had donated it all to charity or put it towards League necessities that weren’t covered by the UN budget.

None of that mattered now.

What mattered was Clark. And the sight of him lying motionless on his bed stopped Bruce cold.

The man looked like death warmed over—pale, drenched in sweat, his breathing shallow and labored. For a split second, Bruce’s heart skipped a beat. The Superman he knew, the symbol of strength and invincibility, was nowhere to be found. In his place was a man—his Clark—utterly vulnerable.

Clark’s eyes fluttered open as Bruce rushed to his side, his voice barely a whisper. "Bruce... I think I'm dying."

The words hit Bruce like a gut punch. For a moment, he froze, fighting the rising panic in his chest. Clark didn't get sick. He didn’t get weak. The idea that Superman might be… dying? It didn’t compute. Bruce felt his breath catch in his throat as he knelt beside the bed.

"Clark," he said sharply, his hand already reaching for Clark’s pulse, his mind scrambling for any explanation. It was fast but faint and there was no denying the feverish heat radiating off his friend.

"I don’t know what’s happening," Clark mumbled, his eyes barely focused. "I’ve never felt anything like this before… even when exposed to kryptonite…"

Bruce’s jaw tightened. Clark was scared. Terrified even. And that was something Bruce hadn’t seen from him in years.

"Hang on, Clark. I’m not going anywhere. We’re going to figure this out," Bruce said, his voice low, but firm with determination. He knew he couldn’t afford to panic, not now.

He was the World’s Greatest Detective, and if anyone could get to the bottom of this, it was him. He didn’t have a thermometer on hand, but Clark was clearly running a fever. The shivering, the cold sweats, and his pale, sickly complexion—it wasn’t hard to read. If Clark weren’t Superman, Bruce would’ve simply diagnosed him with the flu and called it a day.

But Clark was Superman. And while he wasn’t exactly invulnerable to everything, illness wasn’t something Bruce had ever seen him face. It was a known fact that Clark couldn’t get sick the way humans did, wasn’t it? Had he never been sick before?

Clark clearly thought he couldn’t get sick—his first thought had been that he was dying. Bruce rubbed his eyes. Okay, maybe he wasn’t dying. Maybe they were jumping the gun here. But still, neither of them had a frame of reference for this.

His mind shifted quickly to Martha Kent. She’d know the answer to this situation. She’d know if Clark had ever been sick as a kid—or if this was truly a first for him.

For now, though, Bruce would treat it as a first. Make Clark as comfortable as he could, and then—once Clark was settled—he’d call Martha. After all, making Clark feel better was the most important thing right now.

Bruce glanced at Clark again. The poor guy couldn’t even keep his eyes open, much less muster the energy to do anything for himself.

He wasn’t dying. Clark was not going to die. But he sure didn’t look like Superman at the moment.

“Alright, let’s get you feeling a little better,” Bruce muttered, more to himself than Clark, who was barely responsive now.

First, Bruce carefully helped Clark change into fresh clothes—something simple, comfortable. The man barely moved, too weak to argue. Bruce could only imagine how it must feel for someone like Clark, used to strength and invulnerability, to be reduced to this state of complete exhaustion. But Bruce was here to handle this, even if it meant doing things he hadn’t done in years.

Next, he maneuvered Clark onto the couch—which wasn’t easy, considering he was pretty much manhandling 225 lb of dead weight—and, after making sure he was settled, he moved to Clark’s bed. The sheets were soaked with sweat—which was kinda gross, if he was being honest. It was something Alfred would usually handle. He hesitated for a moment, the old habit of letting Alfred do the mundane tasks kicking in, before he gritted his teeth and began the difficult process of changing the sheets. It wasn’t hard, per se, and he knew the science behind it, but Bruce couldn’t for the life of him remember a single instance of his life when he actually made a bed. In the end, it didn’t look as crisp as Alfred’s handywork would, but it was passable.

He made a request on the delivery app FlashDelivery for some over-the-counter cold medicine. He ordered the strongest cold medicine he could find, hoping it would help Clark recover faster—though it would likely knock him out in the process, like most cold medicine did. But if Clark was going to take medicine, he couldn’t do it on an empty stomach. It was imperative that he had some food.

He rummaged through Clark’s cabinets, his eyes flicking to the few options Clark had. Nothing too surprising—some basic pantry staples, and... wait, there it was.

“Girl Scout cookies. Of course,” Bruce mumbled, raising an eyebrow at the box. It was almost ironic that Clark, the Boy Scout, would have a stash of cookies from his ‘rival’ organization. He couldn’t help but smile to himself, despite the situation.

He grabbed the box and turned back to Clark, who was barely conscious. “Hey, big guy,” Bruce said, trying to sound casual. “How about we start with something simple? These should hit the spot.”

Clark’s response was nothing more than a groan, his body trembling slightly as he weakly swiped at the cookies in Bruce’s hand. Bruce gently pushed them closer to him, but the smell hit Clark like a freight train. His face scrunched up, and he let out a weak cough.

“Okay... okay, no cookies,” Bruce said quickly, setting them down and shifting into problem-solving mode. He needed to get Clark to eat something—he wasn’t letting him go without at least trying to take the medicine.

Clark let out another groan, his body still shuddering, clearly too weak to argue but still able to frown at the prospect of eating. Bruce was starting to feel a little helpless, so he piled one more blanket on top of Clark just to feel useful. He’d been through this with his children before, but always with Alfred’s support.

Changing the plan, Bruce moved quickly. He filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove, twisting the knob to high. Tea first—Clark needed something warm to settle his stomach. As the water heated, Bruce grabbed a couple of slices of bread and slid them into the toaster.

How hard could it be? Toast wasn’t complicated. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone, and he’d made enough toast in his life to handle this. Still, he kept an eye on the slices, determined not to burn them.

The kettle started to rumble as he opened the cabinet and pulled out the box of tea bags. Clark kept them specifically for when Bruce came over. He set a tea bag in a mug and returned to the toaster just as it dinged. Snatching the bread, he set it on a plate and quickly spread a very light layer of butter.

The kettle began to whistle right on cue. Pouring the boiling water into the mug, Bruce watched the steam curl up in comforting swirls. He let the tea steep, adding a touch of honey—just the way Clark liked it and carried the tea and toast over to the couch.

“Let’s try this,” Bruce said, sitting down next to Clark and holding out the mug. “Tea and toast, if you’re up for it.”

Clark stirred slightly, his eyes opening just enough to focus on Bruce. He reached for the mug with a shaky hand, and Bruce steadied it as Clark took it into his grasp.

“That’s it,” Bruce murmured, watching closely as Clark brought the tea to his lips. Clark winced at the first sip, but after a moment, he took another, slower swallow. His body seemed to relax, just a little, and Bruce let out a quiet sigh of relief.

“You’re doing fine. Try some toast,” Bruce encouraged, holding the plate closer. Clark didn’t answer, but after a moment, he managed a small bite, chewing slowly.

Before Bruce could coax him further, the doorbell rang. Bruce frowned but jumped to his feet.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, and Clark hummed faintly in acknowledgment, still nursing the tea.

At the door, Bruce snatched the package from the courier, handing over a one-hundred-dollar bill without hesitation before closing the door without saying a single word. Only hours later would he realize he’d already paid for the medicine on the app—but it was okay. The kid had come pretty quickly, all things considered, and it was a well-deserved tip.

Returning to the couch, Bruce quickly opened the package, grabbing the medicine and measuring out the proper dosage. He handed the pills to Clark, who managed to take them with a sip of tea without much fuss.

“Good. Let’s keep going,” Bruce said softly, nudging the plate of toast toward him again.

Clark sighed heavily but reluctantly took another small bite, chewing slowly as though it were the hardest thing he’d ever done. Eventually, he finished the slice, pushing the plate away and shaking his head when Bruce tried to offer more.

“Just a little more,” Bruce coaxed, though his tone was more hopeful than pushy.

Clark groaned in protest and buried his face in the couch cushion like a petulant child.

Bruce couldn’t help the faint smirk that tugged at his lips. Setting the plate aside, he conceded, “Okay. You win. For now.”

He stepped back, assessing Clark. Tea—finished. Toast—mostly gone. More importantly, Clark still hadn’t vomited, which felt like a minor miracle considering his initial reaction to the cookies. Maybe it was best not to press his luck.

Decision made, Bruce leaned down and said, “Come on, let’s get you back to bed.”

Clark groaned again, this time with genuine despair. “Bruce, just let me die,” he mumbled, his voice muffled by the cushion.

Bruce huffed softly, hauling Clark to his feet with careful hands. Clark whimpered dramatically through the process, leaning heavily on Bruce, but didn’t fight him. It felt like moving a very large, very sad cat.

Once they reached the bed, Bruce settled Clark back under the fresh sheets, tucking him in with more care than he would admit. Clark relaxed slightly, his face less pinched, though he was still clearly miserable.

Bruce straightened and crossed his arms, looking down at his friend with a rare touch of fondness. “You’ll survive this, Clark. It’s just... a normal sick day. For once.”

Grabbing Clark’s phone from the bedside table, Bruce added as he turned to leave, “I’m not going anywhere. Just stepping into the living room to make a phone call.”

He was pretty sure Clark was out before he even finished that sentence so he closed the door behind him and went back into the living room to call Martha Kent.

Bruce unlocked Clark’s phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found ‘Ma.’ He hesitated for a moment, then pressed CALL. He had both of Clark’s parents’ numbers for emergencies, but it felt awkward calling from his own phone—he’d never had to do this before, even though he’d known the Kents for years now. Using Clark’s phone somehow felt less... personal.

It rang four times before Martha’s voice came through, warm and welcoming. Bruce could almost hear her smile through the phone, and he was sure that's where Clark got it from.

“Clark, sweetheart, is everythin’ alright, honey? You don’t usually call during work hours,” Martha greeted, her voice slightly concerned, the soft drawl of Kansas clear in her words.

“Hm, actually, this is Bruce, Mrs. Kent,” Bruce replied, his tone stiff, unsure whether to be formal or not.

“Oh! Bruce! How’re you doin’, dear?” she asked, her voice lightening with recognition. Then, concern crept back into her voice. “Is everythin’ okay with Clark?”

“I think so,” Bruce began, “I mean, he’s not feeling great at the moment.”

“Jonathan and I didn’t see anythin’ on the news...” Martha trailed off, her voice still worried.

“Clark’s not hurt. He’s sick,” Bruce clarified quickly. “That’s actually why I was calling. Was he ever sick when he was a kid? He’s showing flu-like symptoms, and honestly, were he anyone else, I wouldn’t worry about it, but this is Clark. He’s never sick.”

Martha paused, and Bruce could almost hear her thinking.

“He struggled with his breathin’ when he first arrived here. His little lungs weren’t used to Earth’s air. But, I can only really remember him bein’ sick once when he was around seven,” she said thoughtfully, her voice steady and comforting.

Bruce let out a small sigh of relief and sank into the couch. “Did he get sick like... a normal kid would?”

“Well, I think it was after Clark came into contact with Kryptonite for the first time. He was still small, and some of his powers hadn’t fully developed yet. So, instead of just losing them when he was near the Kryptonite, he lost 'em for a few days,” Martha explained. “There was also a flu goin’ around school at the time, and I think he caught it just like the other kids. I treated it like a normal flu, and he was better in two or three days.”

“So, when his invulnerability stops working, so does his invulnerable immune system,” Bruce murmured, piecing it together.

Clark had gone through something similar recently. Just last week, he’d spent a considerable amount of time in the Phantom Zone, and it had taken a couple of days for his powers to fully return to normal. It was possible he’d come into contact with someone carrying the flu while his immune system was still compromised, which could explain what was happening now.

Martha sighed sympathetically. “I’d say so, dear. My poor baby… he must be feelin’ awful if he’s got you this worried about him.”

“Well, he was pretty freaked out—thought he was dying.” Bruce couldn’t help but smile a little at the thought of Clark’s overreaction, now that he knew for sure that Clark wasn’t, in fact, dying.

Martha chuckled softly. “He gets the dramatics from his father.”

Bruce laughed quietly, feeling more of the tension leave him.

“I got him to drink some tea, eat some toast, and he’s knocked out from cold medicine right now,” Bruce said, hoping that would put Martha at ease.

“Well, I’ll send you my chicken noodle soup recipe. It’s one of Clark’s favorites, and it’ll make him feel better way quicker than any cold medicine,” Martha said, her tone warming further.

Bruce nodded, though she couldn’t see it. “Thank you, Mrs. Kent. I’ll have Clark give you a call once he feels better.”

Martha’s voice softened with a smile. “Now, Bruce, you call me Martha, alright? No need for all that formal stuff. You’ve known us long enough now.”

Bruce hesitated, caught off guard by her insistence. “I… uh... all right, Martha. Thank you again.”

“Of course, dear. Take good care of our boy and yourself, ya hear?”

“Will do,” Bruce said, his voice softening, the awkwardness gone now.

He hung up, feeling a little less anxious, just in time for Clark’s phone to vibrate with a new text from Lois. That’s when Bruce realized Lane had been blowing up Clark’s phone for a while now, judging by the little notification icon with a little 17 next to her name.

“Shit. He probably didn’t call in sick.”

Bruce found himself making yet another call from Clark’s phone.

“Lane,” he started, but before he could finish, she cut him off.

“Smallville, where the hell are you?” Lois’s voice crackled with annoyance. “I told Perry you were out chasing a lead, but I can only hold him off for so long!”

“Lois,” Bruce tried again, tone flat. “This is Bruce Wayne.”

“Bruce?” she sounded confused, then the realization hit. “Wait... Why do you have Clark’s phone?” Her voice dropped into a teasing tone. “Did you two finally—?”

“No,” Bruce snapped, deadpan, but his ears heated at the implication. “Clark is sick. He used his distress beacon to call me.”

“Oh,” Lois’s tone shifted, momentarily deflated. “Is he going to be okay?”

“Yeah, just the flu,” Bruce assured her, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “He’ll be fine.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll keep Perry off his back today. I already came up with an excuse, but tomorrow he’ll need to call in sick. Perry’ll want to see what he has so far if I keep it up,” Lois said, matter-of-fact. “You better take good care of Clark, or you’ll have to deal with me, Wayne.”

“Leave it to me, he’s in good hands.”

“Let me know if you need me to get anything in the meantime.”

“Thank you Lane.”

Bruce ended the call, and the screen on Clark's phone faded to black. He paused, rubbing a hand over his face. Lois had a knack for being direct, but there was something in her voice—beneath the sarcasm—that hinted at real concern. It made Bruce feel slightly less like he was in over his head.

He let out a quiet sigh and made his way back to the bedroom. The door creaked softly as he pushed it open, stepping inside with the kind of caution he usually reserved for sneaking past hostile guards.

Clark was curled up in bed, his breathing uneven. Despite the blanket pulled snugly over him, his face was still flushed, and a faint sheen of sweat clung to his skin. Bruce stood there for a moment, watching the rise and fall of his chest. The rhythm was a little too shallow for Bruce’s liking, and he had to remind himself again—Clark wasn’t dying.

“Hey,” Bruce whispered, though he doubted Clark could hear him. “You’re going to be fine.”

He let out a breath, then sat carefully at the edge of the bed, the creaky floorboards beneath him adding a soft reminder of the stillness around them. His gaze lingered on Clark’s face, and for a moment, Bruce could see the younger, less invincible version of the man he'd known for years—the one who still needed someone to watch over him every once in a while. It was a side of Clark he rarely got to see, one that made Bruce feel oddly protective.

Without thinking, he reached out, brushing a few messy curls off Clark’s forehead. His fingers grazed damp skin, and he hesitated, caught between the instinct to fix things and the odd quiet comfort of simply being there.

Clark shifted slightly, muttering something too muffled for Bruce to understand, but he didn’t wake. Bruce let his hand trail through Clark's hair a few more times, smoothing it down, the gesture instinctive—a rare moment of tenderness in the midst of his usually controlled existence. He had the fleeting thought that Alfred would tease him mercilessly if he could see this.

“I’ve got you,” Bruce murmured, his voice low. The words were a quiet reassurance—one part meant for Clark and maybe another for himself.

For once, he let himself settle into the stillness. The quiet act of running his fingers through Clark’s hair felt less like a task and more like a promise: a reminder that even heroes needed someone to watch over them every now and then.

When Clark woke up again, he wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but from the light coming through the window, it looked like it was late afternoon. He felt better than last time—still sore, still running a fever—but now it was more like being run over by a tractor rather than a truck. Small mercies.

The room was quiet, and he was alone. Had he really used the distress beacon to call Bruce, or had he just passed out from the discomfort? The thought of Bruce lingering around, helping him change out of his sweat-soaked clothes, and pushing tea, toast, and medicine on him felt almost surreal. Had that actually happened? Or had it all been a fever dream?

Most likely a fever dream. After all, he may have also dreamed that Bruce ran his hand through his hair in a way that made him want to purr like a cat—and Bruce was known to be vehemently averse to all kinds of physical touch.

“Oh, you’re awake,” someone said from the door to his bedroom. Clark looked up to find Bruce half-dressed for work, his shirt sleeves rolled up and an apron covering the rest of his outfit. “I was going to see if you were up to eating something and taking more medicine.”

Clark just stared blankly at him. He understood the words perfectly—it was his brain that was having trouble processing what he was seeing and hearing. He was definitely having a fever dream.

“Clark?” Bruce frowned, pressing the back of his cool hand against Clark’s forehead. “You’re still running a low-grade fever, but you look better.”

Clark had to physically restrain himself from moaning and pressing his face into Bruce’s hand as Bruce sat down on the bed and looked down at him.

“How are you feeling?”

Clark cleared his throat. “Slightly better,” he said, his voice raspy.

“You sound it, at least.”

“I gotta be honest… I thought you coming here was a fever dream,” Clark confessed. “Still not quite convinced you’re really here, or if my body’s just hallucinating Bruce Wayne wearing an apron now that I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying!” Bruce snapped, clearly miffed. “And you’re not hallucinating. I’m really here, you idiot.”

Clark’s lips curled into a grin despite himself. “That sounds like my Bruce.”

Bruce shook his head, but there was the faintest hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth. “You up for eating some more? Your mom sent me her chicken noodle soup recipe, and you should get some more cold medicine in you.”

Clark’s brow furrowed. “You talked with my mom?”

Bruce quickly averted his eyes, his cheeks tinging just the slightest shade of pink. “Well, you scared me half to death. You told me you were dying, and you looked like it—even though you just had flu-like symptoms. I didn’t want to worry your mom, but if anyone would know if you’ve ever been sick before, it’d be your parents. So, I gave your mom a call.” He paused, sighing as if it were all still a little much. “Turns out you can get sick if you come into contact with a virus while you’re not invulnerable.”

Clark blinked, a little stunned by the idea. “Good to know I just felt like I was dying.”

Bruce huffed, though there was a warmth behind his words. “Good to know you’re just as dramatic as my children.”

“You mentioned my mom’s chicken soup recipe?” Clark asked, deciding to change the subject. He was feeling quite peckish compared to the nausea that had come over him that morning, so he was going to count this as a win.

Bruce shot him a side-eye. “I can’t promise it tastes anything like the original,” he warned. “I had very little to work with, and I had to FlashDelivery some of the ingredients. Also, I can’t promise that the Metropolis supermarket free-range chicken is the same as the chickens back at Smallville…”

Clark just let him go, letting Bruce ramble about how produce in big cities lacked the nutrients and quality of midwestern states where people grew their own. And Clark just… stared at him. It was endearing, really, watching Bruce try to justify his shortcomings. Clark couldn’t help the small, fond smile that tugged at his lips. He still couldn’t believe Bruce had stopped everything to come to his aid like this.

“Bruce,” Clark cut him off with a soft smile.

“Mm?” Bruce didn’t seem to notice the affectionate look on his face.

“I can live with mediocre chicken noodle soup,” Clark reassured him.

“I didn’t say it was mediocre!” Bruce’s indignant response had Clark laughing softly, which, considering how much his body hurt, was a nice surprise.

The soup was far from mediocre. It was actually pretty good—though, of course, it didn’t hold a candle to his Ma’s chicken noodle soup. But then again, not even Bruce Wayne could manage that. Still, Clark could appreciate the effort, especially since it came from Bruce, who was usually more comfortable with saving the world and running a multibillion-dollar company than cooking.

The real battle, though, wasn’t over the soup. It was the cold medicine. Bruce had already coaxed him into taking a dose earlier, but Clark was dragging his feet about another. Not because he was being stubborn—well, okay, maybe a little stubborn—but more because Clark knew what would happen. Cold medicine made people drowsy, and considering it was already evening, that meant he’d probably fall asleep soon. And when he did, Bruce would most likely leave.

And Clark didn’t want Bruce to leave.

“Clark, come on,” Bruce said, his voice a little too patient for Clark’s liking as he placed the pills in his palm. “You’re not getting any better if you keep putting this off. And you know it’s just going to get worse if you don’t take it.”

Clark stared at the pills in his hand, sighing heavily. “I’m not a kid, Bruce. I don’t need you treating me like one.”

Bruce smirked, crossing his arms. “Well, you sure act like one when it comes to medicine. Come on. You can take them and rest, or you can keep arguing and I’ll force-feed you the next dose. Your choice.”

Clark narrowed his eyes, but Bruce wasn’t backing down. He was so used to being the one doing the nagging—telling Bruce to take care of himself, to rest, to not hide his injuries. And here Bruce was, in his kitchen, wearing an apron and practically babysitting him. It was... a little humbling, honestly.

“I don’t know if I want to sleep yet,” Clark mumbled, the words coming out more like a confession than an argument.

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

Clark hesitated. It wasn’t exactly something he was ready to admit. “Because… if I fall asleep, you’ll leave.”

Bruce blinked, then gave him a sidelong glance. “Clark, I’m not going anywhere,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “I’m staying right here, whether you like it or not.”

Clark blinked up at him, his words slurring slightly as the fever and leftover cold medicine in his system clouded his thoughts. “Promise?”

Bruce nodded, his voice gentle but firm. “Promise.”

Clark sighed, his resolve crumbling. “Fine,” he muttered, swallowing the pills with the glass of water Bruce handed him. “Happy now?”

Bruce’s lips twitched upward. “Very,” he replied, leaning back into the couch as he watched Clark settle against the cushions.

The two of them didn’t need to say much more. Clark could feel the warmth of Bruce’s presence beside him as the drowsiness from the medicine crept over him. He let his head lean against Bruce’s shoulder, eyes slipping closed, the sound of the TV playing softly in the background.

The movie they were watching, Gray Ghost, was one they both agreed on—one of their mutual favorites. Even though Clark was barely awake, he couldn’t help but smile as the familiar intro started playing. The nostalgia of it wrapped around him like a blanket.

When Clark next woke up, the room was dim, the credits were rolling on the screen. He blinked up at Bruce, who was still sitting beside him, watching the screen with quiet interest. It took a moment for Clark to realize he’d been leaning against Bruce this entire time.

“Did I… fall asleep?” Clark mumbled, still feeling groggy from the medicine.

Bruce looked down at him with a half-smile. “Yep. I tried to wake you for your favorite scene, but you were out cold.”

Clark pouted, rubbing his eyes. “I didn’t mean to. But…” His voice softened, a bit of confusion and reluctance seeping through the drowsiness. “You’re really going to leave now, aren’t you?”

Bruce blinked, clearly caught off guard by the question. “What?”

Clark made a small, grumpy noise, still too drugged to hide his emotions. “You’re probably going to go, right? I mean, it’s late, and I’ll just go back to sleep…”

Bruce frowned, his expression softening as he glanced at the clock and then back at Clark. “I’m not going anywhere, Clark. I promised you.”

Clark’s eyes were still heavy, but he managed a small smile, even as the sadness of the thought weighed on him. “You need to patrol.”

Bruce leaned closer, brushing a hand over Clark’s messy hair, his fingers lingering a little longer than necessary. “The kids can cover for me for a night.”

“Can you stay just until I fall asleep for real? Then you can go patrolling, Gotham needs Batman.”

“Of course, Clark.”

Clark, still half-loopy from the medicine, blinked up at him, suddenly more awake, if only for a moment. “Can we hang out again soon?” His voice had a playful, drowsy quality to it, like he was teasing but wasn’t quite sure what he was asking. “Like, for real when I’m not dying or sleeping half the time?”

Bruce chuckled softly, as if surprised by the question but not in a bad way. “Yeah, of course. How about Friday?”

Clark’s eyes flickered between Bruce’s, his grin widening despite himself. “Is that a date?” he asked, his words drawn out like a question he didn’t quite expect an answer to.

Bruce blinked, taken aback for a moment by the sudden question, but then he chuckled, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Yeah, Clark. It’s a date,” he said, his voice almost teasing now.

Clark’s smile was lazy, content. “Good,” he mumbled, already drifting back to sleep.

Bruce helped him sit up before he could fall back asleep on the couch, the medicine making Clark’s body heavy and his movements slow, but Bruce was gentle as he guided him back to bed. He tucked Clark in, making sure the blankets were snug around him, and paused, looking down at him.

“Get some sleep,” Bruce said quietly. “And remember, you’re calling in sick tomorrow.”

Clark nodded sleepily, barely able to keep his eyes open. “Promise,” he muttered.

“I’ll check in with Lois to make sure you didn’t forget,” Bruce replied, his voice soft. “I’ll see you Friday. Rest up, okay?”

Clark mumbled something unintelligible before he fully drifted off, a peaceful smile still on his lips. Bruce stayed for a moment longer, watching over him. Clark was fully passed out, he could leave if he wanted to…

Before he did, though, he couldn’t help but kiss Clark’s feverish warm cheek.

By Friday, Clark was feeling a lot better. He was still a little tired from the cold, but his spirits were up. He had been looking forward to his “date” with Bruce all week. He didn’t exactly remember asking Bruce on a date, but then again, his memories from the night he’d been sick were a bit foggy. What he did remember, however, was that Bruce had called him the day after to check on him.

“Clark,” Bruce had said over the phone, his voice a little awkward, “I just wanted to make sure you're feeling better and that you called in sick today. Also, uh… to let you know that I’m looking forward to our date on Friday.”

Clark had blinked at the phone, confused for a moment, but it made sense now. Bruce had said it like it was the most normal thing in the world. Clark smiled to himself at the thought.

So when the phone rang on Friday morning, Clark answered eagerly—though his mood shifted when he heard Bruce’s voice.

“Hey, Clark,” Bruce sounded like death warmed over. “I think we need to cancel our date tonight… I’m sick.”

Clark’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait, what? You’re sick?”

“Yeah… I’ve been feeling off all morning,” Bruce grumbled, and Clark could practically hear him rubbing his temples through the phone. “I think I caught whatever you had.”

Clark's stomach sank. “Oh no. I feel guilty. Somehow, I feel like I’m the one to blame here.”

Bruce snorted. “You're not blameless, but you’re also not the one who had a sick, overgrown puppy draped over him while watching Gray Ghost and felt compelled to kiss his forehead every ten minutes three days ago.”

Clark’s eyes widened in delighted realization. “Bruce, you gave me forehead kisses while I was unconscious? That’s so sweet and creepy of you.”

Bruce made a low, unimpressed noise. “No comment.” Even through the congestion, Clark could hear the hint of dry amusement in his voice.

Clark laughed, the sound warm and fond. “Well, I’m sorry you’re sick, Bruce. But you know… I’m not exactly going anywhere tonight either, and I’m back to being invulnerable. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Bruce made a noise somewhere between a groan and a chuckle, like he wanted to be exasperated but couldn’t quite commit. “So what you’re saying is, you want to come over and watch Gray Ghost while I pass out on you and look miserable?”

Clark grinned. “Exactly. And I fully intend to return the forehead kisses. You know, just to be fair.”

Bruce let out a slow, put-upon sigh, but there was unmistakable warmth in it. “That’s not how this works.”

Clark beamed. “Too bad. See you tonight.”

Bruce didn’t answer right away, but Clark could hear the faint, tired exhale on the other end of the line, the kind that meant Bruce was smiling despite himself.

“…Yeah,” Bruce murmured at last. “See you tonight.”